When I was younger I stood in the mirror and wondered who the girl was staring back at me
I questioned the color of my skin and if it was the reason I didn’t fit in
I told myself that I’d tell those who deemed me undeserving that I hate my skin too
And maybe then I’d be cool enough to be picked first
Or at least getting picked last wouldn’t hurt as much
And maybe if I drew straight lines on my skin I’d appear to be straight too
Because being black and bisexual is a death sentence I can’t complete
Do they make keys strong enough to keep the part of me that wanders locked away
What do I say when they question my silence
What shade of eyeshadow would hide my crying
There isn’t a dictionary big enough to help me find a phrase to accessorize my uncertainties
And quite frankly I’m done trying
If I could talk to that girl back then
I’d tell her to love the color of her skin
To hell with the judgements of those who’ve never stood trial
And never to hide from who she is within